BOOKS  BY 
ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 

"PEANUT."     Illustrated.     16mo net  $  .50 

MARK  TWAIN:   A  BIOGRAPHY.     Illustrated. 

Octavo,  Uniform  Red  Cloth,  Trade  Edition, 

3  Vols.  (in  a  box) net  $6.00 

Octavo,   Cloth,   Full    Gilt  Backs,   Gilt  Tops, 
Library  Edition,  3  Vols.  (in  a  box) net     7.00 

Octavo,  Three-quarter  Calf,  Gilt  Tops,  3  Vols. 

(in  a  box) net  14.50 

Octavo,    Three-quarter    Levant,    Gilt    Tops, 

3  Vols.  (in  a  box) net  15.50 

THE  SHIP   DWELLERS.     Illustrated.     8vo...net  1.50 

THE  TENT-DWELLERS.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo  1.50 
THE  HOLLOW  TREE  SNOWED-!N  BOOK.     IH'd. 

Crown  8vo  1.50 
THE   HOLLOW  TREE  AND  DEEP  WOODS  BOOK. 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo 1.50 

FROM    VAN-DWELLER    TO    COMMUTER.      Illus- 
trated.    Post  8vo 1.50 

LIFE  OF  THOMAS  NAST.      Illustrated.     8vo  net  5.00 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


HE     STORY     OF     A 


BY 

-•• 

BIGELOW  PAINE 

AUTHOR  OF 

MAUK    TWAIN A    BIOGRAPHY 

THE  TENT-DWELfLKHS,  ETC. 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCMXIII 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED    OCTOBER,     1913 


F-N 


PS 

3S3/ 
P/4/  p 


rvv^e 


3W""'  1      1 

[*y  -^"'   ^ 

PEANUT" 


„  perhaps  more 
easily  to  identify  the 
clearing  about 
grave.      From 
ravine   below, 
the    stage 

,  ^€y   were 

visible,  But>the 
uTT^-^nch  headboard, 
weather-beaten  by  a 
year  of^un  and  rain, 
i 


562942 


'PEANUT' 

was  getting  lost  in  a  growth  of  bushes. 
When  pointed  out  by  the  driver  as 
marking  the  "last  hangout  of  Blazer 
Sam,"  who  had  "died  with  his  boots 
on,  and  had  two  cuss-words  in  his  epi- 
taph," it  could  be  discerned  now  with 
difficulty  and  there  were  travelers, 
men  mostly,  who  prevailed  upon  the 
somewhat  garrulous  official  to  "let 
the  horses  blow  a  little  while  they 
scaled  the  mountain  for  a  closer  view. 
The  epitaph  itself  was  worth  the 
climb. 

A  few  of  those  who  had  made  the 
steep  ascent  for  that  literary  treat, 
and  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  grave 
of  the  notorious  desperado,  highway- 
man, and  general  outlaw,  had  seen 
something  dart  away  into  the  bushes 
at  their  approach.  As  a  rule,  they 
had  been  too  far  off  to  tell  whether 

2 


'PEANUT' 

it  was  a  coyote,  a  jack-rabbit,  or  a 
boy.  Those  who  had  obtained  the 
closer  view  usually  agreed  that  it  was 
a  boy — a  very  thin  boy  of  about  ten, 
with  pale  hair  and  no  head-covering. 
The  stage-driver  in  due  time  ac- 
quired information.  Those  who  had 
said  it  was  a  boy  were  correct. 
When  Blazer  Sam  had  made  his  final 
exit  in  the  abrupt  manner  noted, 
and  so  taken  his  boots  with  him,  he 
had  left  behind  the  Rose  of  Texas, 
acquired  long  before  in  a  poker  game, 
and  a  little  waif  known  as  Peanut, 
picked  up  like  a  stray  kitten  during 
one  of  the  Blazer's  devious  wander- 
ings. The  name  Peanut  might  have 
come  from  the  color  of  his  hair,  or 
from  his  small  size  and  value.  The 
driver  did  not  know.  He  had  heard 
that  the  boy  had  been  kindly  treated 


'PEANUT' 

by  both  the  Blazer  and  the  Rose, 
and  with  the  latter  still  occupied 
Sam's  little  hut  in  the  woods  above 
the  clearing.  The  waif  probably  came 
out  into  the  opening  to  see  the  stage 
pass.  Then  again  he  might  be  "kind- 
er lonesome  for  Sam." 

The  driver  was  right  in  at  least  one 
of  these  conjectures.  Peanut  was  in- 
deed "lonesome  for  Sam."  He  could 
remember  very  little  preceding  the 
day  six  years  before  when  Sam  had 
brought  him  home  to  be  company  for 
the  Rose,  during  absences  that  had 
grown  ever  more  prolonged  as  the 
years  passed  and  the  outlaw's  field  of 
labor  had  been  found  farther  and  yet 
farther  away  from  his  cabin  on  the 
hillside.  What  Peanut  did  remember 
was  that  he  never  had  been  hungry 
since  that  day.  Also,  the  times  when 


'PEANUT' 

Sam  had  come  home.  For  whatever 
had  been  the  source  of  Sam's  gains, 
he  had  provided  well  for  the  Rose; 
and  if,  as  was  said,  the  hand  of  every 
man  was  against  him  and  his  hand 
against  every  man  you  could  not  have 
guessed  it  to  see  the  small,  lean  hand 
of  Peanut  locked  closely  in  his  own, 
and  the  two  wandering  over  the  moun- 
tain together  in  those  days  that  were 
now  no  more  and  would  never  more 
return.  There  remained  to  Peanut 
only  their  memory  and  the  barren 
comfort  of  a  grave  and  an  epitaph. 

Yet  these  were  much  to  the  lonely 
child.  When  he  had  pushed  through 
the  bushes  to  the  grave  he  felt  close 
to  Sam,  while  the  vigor  of  the  epitaph, 
which  he  could  read,  because  this 
much  the  Rose  had  taught  him,  was 
somehow  satisfying.  The  last  line  af- 


'PEANUT' 

forded  him  special  comfort.  It  as- 
sured him  that  no  one  would  ever 
dare  to  take  Sam  away. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  there 
was  anything  objectionable  in  the 
lines.  He  did  not  know  that  epitaphs 
are  not  so  true,  as  a  rule;  while  as  for 
the  emphasis,  it  was  of  the  sort  he  knew 
best.  That  he  did  not  use  those 
words  himself  was  only  for  the  same 
reason  that  he  did  not  chew  tobacco 
yet,  or  drink  whisky.  He  had  been 
assured  by  the  Rose  that  these  luxu- 
ries were  not  for  little  boys,  and  he  had 
been  willing  to  wait.  He  was  glad, 
however,  that  Sam,  who  had  indulged 
liberally  in  the  good  things  of  life, 
could  still  have  the  best  on  his  tomb- 
stone. 

Portions  of  the  inscription  puzzled 
him.  He  did  not  know  that  there 

6 


'PEANUT' 

had  been  a  price  on  the  outlaw's  head, 
and  he  wondered  why  the  "greaser," 
referred  to  in  line  three,  should  want 
to  kill  Sam.  Neither  did  he  realize 
that  line  two  doubtless  alluded  to 
the  Blazer's  slight  valuation  of  life  in 
general,  rather  than  to  any  disregard 
of  his  own  particular  existence.  Pea- 
nut failed  to  understand  why  it  was 
that  Sam  had  not  cared  for  life  when 
by  living  he  could  come  home  now  and 
then  and  show  him  the  trout  brook, 
and  make  whistles  for  him,  and  visit 
the  eagle's  nest  in  the  cliff.  Why, 
once  they  had  even  found  a  cave,  and 
in  it  a  shot  and  dying  mother  bear, 
with  two  little  bears,  that  were  now 
big  bears  and  still  came  to  the  cabin 
to  be  fed.  When  it  rained  they  had 
sometimes  run  for  this  cave,  to  build 
a  fire  at  the  mouth  of  it  and  to  lie 

2  7 


'PEANUT' 

there  and  watch  the  blaze  and  talk 
and  play  with  the  bears  until  the  rain 
was  over.  What  was  the  reason,  then, 
that  Sam  had  not  cared  to  live  and 
have  all  these  things  when  he,  Peanut, 
had  cared  for  them  so  much? 

He  cared  for  them  still.  He  could 
find  his  way  to  the  brook  and  the  ea- 
gle's nest,  and  to  the  cave  where  the 
bears  were  always  glad  to  see  him, 
especially  when  he  brought  food.  The 
innumerable  squirrels  and  birds  and 
other  wood-folk  were  his  own;  yet 
from  them  all  he  turned  each  day 
to  Sam's  grave,  there  to  live  over 
again  those  other  days  when  Sam  had 
taught  him  the  lore  and  kinship  of  the 
mountains,  and  when,  hand  in  hand, 
they  had  pushed  through  vines  and 
leaves  to  visit  the  forest  people  to- 
gether. 

8 


'PEANUT' 

Often  when  it  was  bright  and  warm 
he  stayed  by  the  grave  most  of  the 
day,  and  sometimes,  with  his  face 
down  in  the  grass,  he  would  talk  to 
Sam.  When  it  stormed  he  crept  un- 
der the  bushes  and  felt  a  deep  com- 
miseration for  the  lonely  mound  with 
the  rain  pelting  down  upon  it.  There 
had  been  times  in  winter,  when  the 
snow  was  deepest,  that  he  could  not 
go  at  all.  On  these  days  he  moped 
in  the  house  with  the  Rose,  who 
since  Sam's  death  had  supplied  their 
meager  wants  by  doing  mending  and 
an  occasional  washing  for  the  mining- 
camp  below.  She  had  grown  rather 
fat  and  silent  and  spent  most  of  her 
days  playing  solitaire  and  telling  her 
own  fortune  with  a  greasy  pack  of 
cards,  which  diversions  did  not  appeal 
to  Peanut. 

9 


'PEANUT' 

But  in  supposing  that  Peanut  had 
come  out  into  the  clearing  to  see  the 
stage  pass,  the  driver  had  been  wholly 
wrong.  Sam  had  never  cared  for  the 
stage  or  for  people.  In  fact,  he  had 
rather  avoided  those  things,  Peanut 
thought,  and  he  knew  Sam  always 
had  good  reasons  for  what  he  did. 
When  the  boy  saw  strangers  climbing 
the  steep  hill  to  visit  the  grave  he  fled 
hastily  into  the  bushes,  where,  lying 
hid,  he  watched  to  see  that  they  did 
not  carry  anything  away  save  perhaps 
an  occasional  walking-stick  or  a  hand- 
ful of  goldenrod.  When  they  laughed 
and  talked  loudly  he  was  fiercely 
angry,  and  thought  he  understood 
why  it  was  that  Sam  had  preferred 
the  society  of  the  quiet  wood-folk. 

With  those  of  his  own  age  Peanut 

had  had  but  one  experience.     Twice 
10 


PEANUT 


i  > 


the  Rose  had  prevailed  upon  him  to 
go  with  her  to  the  mining-camp,  and 
on  the  last  of  these  occasions  a  boy— 
the  only  one  in  the  camp — had  de- 
frauded him  of  his  best  whistle  and 
of  such  other  valuables  as  had  been 
upon  his  person  at  the  time.  He  had 
received  in  exchange  some  yellow  ore, 
which  the  boy  had  insisted  was  gold, 
but  which  the  Rose  declared  to  be 
slag,  and  worthless.  It  was  his  first 
experience  with  deception. 

Peanut  had  refused  to  go  to  the 
camp  again. 


II 


ONE  day  in  late  August  the  stage 
stopped  to  let  a  woman  climb 
the  hill.  Women  visited  the  grave 
now  and  then,  and  Miss  Cynthia 
Schofield,  age  thirty -four,  a  teacher  in 
a  Chicago  public  institution  of  learn- 
ing, was  just  the  one  to  improve  such 
an  opportunity.  For  Miss  Schofield 
was  progressive  in  the  matter  of 
acquiring  knowledge.  She  spent  each 
summer  in  some  elemental  region,  of 
which  she  made  numerous  photo- 
graphs and  notes.  These  she  used 
later  in  certain  illustrated  evening  lec- 
tures called  "  In-gatherings,"  given  by 
lie 


'PEANUT' 

Miss  Schofield  for  the  benefit  of  per- 
sons with  fewer  opportunities;  also 
for  the  purpose  of  adding  a  trifle  to 
her  own  modest  income.  She  was 
"doing  the  mines"  this  year,  and  her 
present  destination  was  the  camp,  two 
miles  farther  down.  The  desperado's 
grave  and  history  would  make  a  pic- 
turesque addition  to  her  collection. 

The  climb  was  harder  than  it  ap- 
peared from  below.  Being  the  only 
passenger,  the  driver  had  told  her  to 
take  her  time,  and  more  than  once 
she  leaned  against  a  boulder  to  look 
down  into  the  dark  ravine  made 
famous  by  some  of  Blazer's  earlier 
exploits.  She  recognized  the  artistic 
value  of  the  fact  that  his  last  resting- 
place  overlooked  the  scene  of  his  for- 
mer depredations.  She  must  cer- 
tainly bring  this  out  well  in  her 

13 


'PEANUT' 

lecture,  and  as  she  toiled  upward 
she  was  forming  in  her  mind  certain 
phrases,  with  a  view  to  this  result. 
Then  she  pushed  gently  between  two 
small  cedars  into  the  opening  where 
the  grave  was. 

At  first  glance  she  saw  only  some 
bushes  and  fireweed  about  the  black- 
ened stumps,  and  the  riotous  mass  of 
goldenrod  which  possessed  one  corner 
of  the  little  clearing.  Then  just  by 
the  goldenrod  she  saw  the  grave,  and 
paused,  for,  face  down  upon  it,  asleep, 
lay  a  meager  barefoot  boy  with  faded 
hair. 

Miss  Schofield  was,  first  of  all,  the 
artist.  She  had  anticipated  nothing 
so  rich  in  value  as  this,  and  with  deft 
hands  she  adjusted  the  camera  and 
secured  the  range.  There  came  a 
sharp  click,  and  the  outlaw's  grave, 

14 


'PEANUT' 

the  goldenrod,  the  fireweed,  the  black 
stumps,  and  the  faded  sleeping  boy 
had  been  added  to  her  store  of  choice 
in-gatherings. 

There  had  been  still  another  result. 
The  snap  of  the  shutter  had  brought 
the  light  figure  to  its  feet,  like  some 
spry  wood  creature  as  suddenly  dis- 
turbed. An  instant  more  and  he 
would  have  darted  away  into  the 
bushes;  only,  Miss  Schofield  spoke  just 
then,  and  with  persuasiveness — the  re- 
sult of  long  pedagogical  training. 

"Don't  go!  Oh,  please  don't!"  she 
pleaded,  gently.  "Please  wait.  ;.'?!? 
want  so  much  to  speak  to  you." 

Peanut  had  no  particular  reason  for 
being  afraid  of  women.  The  only  one 
he  had  studied  at  close  range  had  been 
kind  to  him  to  the  point  of  indulgence. 
There  was  something  in  the  voice  of 

15 


'PEANUT' 

this  one  that  held  him  fast.  The  wom- 
an came  a  step  closer.  She  seemed 
young  and  beautiful  to  Peanut. 

"Please  tell  me  your  name,"  she 
said. 

"Peanut." 

"Oh,  that  is  what  they  call  you, 
perhaps.  Your  real  name,  I  mean." 

The  boy  made  no  reply  at  first  to 
this  comment.  He  seemed  gathering 
something  from  the  mists  of  mem- 
ory. 

"Sam  told  me  that  it  used  to  be — 
longer  than  that,"  he  ventured  at  last, 
very  slowly.  "He  told  me  once  that 
it  was  Philip — Nutt,  but  he  said  P. 
was  the  same  as  Philip,  and  that 
he  thought  Peanut  fit  me  bet- 
ter." 

Panic  seemed  about  to  return,  as 
the  result  of  this  long  speech,  and 

16 


'PEANUT' 

once  more  it  required  the  soothing 
diplomacy  of  Miss  Schofield  to  de- 
tain him. 

"How  very  nice,"  she  said.  "And 
now  won't  you  please  tell  me  where 
you  live,  and  about  Sam  and  the 
grave?" 

Again  Peanut  hesitated.  Then  he 
pointed  behind  him. 

"I  live  up  there;  and  Sam,  he — 
why  he's  in  the  grave,  and  dam  the 
man  that  moves  his  bones." 

Miss  Schofield  had  been  unprepared 
for  this.  Her  emotion,  however,  was 
mistaken  by  Peanut  for  incredulity. 
"I  can  show  it  to  you  on  the  board," 
he  insisted,  eagerly. 

The  woman  came  up  close,  now, 
and  followed  where  his  wisp  of  a 
finger  pointed.  As  he  indicated  each 
line,  he  repeated  it  with  a  sort  of 

17 


'PEANUT' 

monotonous  tenderness,  laying  special 
emphasis  on  the  last. 

"Here  lies  the  body  of  Blazer  Sam, 
For  life  he  didn't  care  a  dam — 
He  was  plugged  by  a  greaser  unbeknowns, 
And  dam  the  man  that  moves  his  bones." 

Miss  Schofield's  look  of  concern  be- 
came one  of  sympathetic  understand- 
ing. The  waif  turned  to  her. 

:<You  didn't  want  to  take  Sam 
away,  anyhow,  did  you?" 

"Oh,  no  indeed!  I  don't  want  to 
take  any  one  away—  She  hesitated 
and  looked  down  into  the  wistful  face 
before  her.  "At  least,  not  Sam,"  she 
qualified.  "I  have  already  taken  a 
picture  of  the  grave  and  you  shall 
have  one  of  them.  Tell  me,  Philip, 
whom  you  live  with,  so  I  shall  know 
how  to  send  it." 

18 


'PEANUT' 

The  sound  of  his  name  thus  spoken 
may  have  awakened  a  sort  of  dignity 
in  the  waif. 

"I  live  with  the  Rose  of  Texas," 
he  said,  gravely.  "Me  an'  Sam  both 
did,  till  Sam  was  plugged  by  a  greaser 
unbeknowns,  and— 

Miss  Schofield  interrupted  rather 
hastily. 

"Never  mind  the  next  line,  Philip. 
I  remember  it.  Just  a  moment — 

She  had  taken  out  her  note-book 
and  was  puzzling  over  the  proper 
entry.  "Philip  Nutt,  alias  Peanut, 
Care  of  the  Rose  of  Texas,  former 
housekeeper  for  Blazer  Sam."  It 
seemed  a  doubtful  combination  to  in- 
trust to  the  mail  service.  Then  her 
face  lighted  with  a  sudden  resolution. 

"Show  me  just  where  you  live, 
Philip." 

19 


'PEANUT' 

The  boy  turned  and  pointed  up  the 
mountain. 

"That  big  spruce  grows  by  the 
house.  It's  on  the  rocks  behind  it." 

"I  see,  Philip.  I  can  find  it  easily. 
I  must  be  going  now,  for  the  stage  is 
waiting,  but  I  shall  stop  a  day  or 
two  at  the  mines  below  here.  I  will 
come  to-morrow  and  learn  just  how 
to  send  the  picture.  Good -by  till 
then,  Philip." 

She  took  his  thin  brown  hand  in  her 
own  soft  palm.  The  mother  instinct 
welled  up  strong.  She  hungered  to 
gather  him  to  her  breast,  but  he  was 
already  drawing  back  rather  fearful- 
ly. A  step  away  she  turned  to  wave 
another  good-by. 

Peanut  had  disappeared  among  the 
bushes. 


Ill 

THE  Rose  of  Texas  sat  in  the  open 
door  of  her  cabin.  The  Rose 
might  have  been  beautiful  once — it  is 
proper  to  give  any  woman  past  middle 
age  the  benefit  of  this  possibility — and 
there  may  have  been  a  time  when  the 
Rose  had  deserved  her  name  and  been 
fully  equal  in  value  to  the  Colt  .44, 
three  ponies,  and  five  hundred  dollars 
in  gold  which  Sam  had  stacked  up 
against  her,  and  so,  with  the  aid  of 
three  other  knaves,  attached  her  to 
his  household.  On  a  stone  a  few  feet 
distant  sat  Peanut,  in  deep  reverie. 

The  Rose  was  first  to  break  the  silence. 
21 


'PEANUT' 

"I  reckon  it's  the  best  thing  for 
you,  Peanut,"  she  said,  and  there  was 
a  sort  of  resolute  hopelessness  in  her 
voice.  "It  '11  be  mighty  lonesome,  of 
course,  without  you,  but  when  you 
get  so  you  can  write  you  can  send 
me  a  letter  now  and  then.  I  guess 
I  can  read  'em.  I  ain't  tried  any  for 
a  good  while,  but  if  you  make  'em 
plain,  mebbe  I  can  spell  'em  out.  It's 
a  good  chance,  Peanut,  an'  I  don't 
s'pose  you'd  ever  get  another.  Then 
you'll  learn  figgerin',  too." 

"What's  that,  Rose?  What's  fig- 
gerin'?" 

"Why,  it's  like  writin',  only  it's 
countin',  on  paper.  It's  to  keep  folks 
from  cheatin'  you,  in  a  trade." 

Peanut  recalled  his  experience  with 
the  boy  at  the  mines.  The  boy  prob- 
ably knew  about  figgerin'. 

22 


"PEANUT' 

How  long  does  it  take  to  learn 

jerin',  Rose?" 

"Oh,  I  dun'no'.    Mebbe  a  year." 

"Then  can  I  come  back  to  you — an' 
the  bears,  an'  Sam's  grave?" 

:'You  won't  want  to.  You'll  be 
learnin'  other  things  an'  seein'  new 
places  an'  fine  folks.  You  won't 
want  to  come  back  to  the  hills,  even  if 
you  could.  But  you  can  write,  an' 
you'll  have  a  picter  of  Sam's  grave, 
like  the  kind  she  showed  us  to-day. 
She  seems  like  she'd  be  mighty  good 
to  you,  an'  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  go, 
Peanut." 

"But  I'm  comin'  back,  Rose,  when 
I've  learnt  figgerin'  an'  seen  all  the 
places.  I'm  comin'  back  to  locate  a 
mine  an'  make  money  for  us.  You 
can't  stay  here  always  alone.  An' 
our  bears  would  forgit  me  if  I  was 

3  23 


'PEANUT' 

gone  too  long.  You'll  feed  'em  jest 
the  same,  won't  you,  Rose,  when  I 
ain't  here?" 

The  woman's  voice  broke  a  little 
as  she  assured  him  that  the  big  brown 
bears  that  lumbered  down  the  moun- 
tain every  day  for  refuse  should  still 
be  cared  for  in  his  absence. 

"She's  comin'  in  the  mornin',"  the 
Rose  continued,  "an'  if  yer  goin',  you 
want  to  be  ready.  Put  on  yer  winter 
shoes  an'  yer  hat  an'  yer  other  shirt. 
'Tain't  much  of  a  outfit,  but  it's 
more'n  you  come  with,  an'  she's  goin' 
to  pervide  fur  you.  I've  got  a  little 
scrap  o'  money,  though,  Peanut,  an' 
I  want  you  to  take  it  along.  You 
ain't  to  spend  it  unless  somethin' 
happens  an'  she  ain't  there.  She'll 
pervide  when  she  is.  Jest  keep  it  so 
you  know  where  it  is.  If  you  ever 

24 


'PEANUT' 

get  lost,  er  need  anything  when  she 
ain't  at  home,  then  use  it,  but  keep 
it  as  long  as  you  can." 

The  woman's  hand  had  gone  down 
to  the  hem  of  her  skirt  and  under  her 
knee.  It  came  up  holding  a  small 
roll  of  currency. 

"There's  ten  dollars  here,  Peanut; 
it  won't  buy  much,  but  it  would  go  a 
long  ways  if  you  was  lost  and  hungry. 
Keep  it  in  the  little  sack,  with  Sam's 
ambertype  an'  the  last  whistle  he 
made  you,  an'  don't  let  the  sack  out 
o'  yer  hands." 

The  boy  took  the  money  curiously. 
He  had  never  possessed  any  before. 
He  opened  the  bills  and  looked  first 
at  one,  then  at  the  other.  He  went 
into  the  cabin  presently  and  deposited 
them  in  a  small  buckskin  bag  which 
Sam  had  given  him  for  his  treasures. 

25 


'PEANUT' 

When  Miss  Schofield  appeared  next 
morning  he  was  sitting  stiffly  in  his 
winter  shoes  and  hat,  his  wet,  faded 
hair  plastered  close,  the  little  bag  con- 
cealed about  his  neck.  He  was  quite 
ready. 

The  Rose  was  wiping  her  eyes  as 
she  saw  them  pass  down  the  mountain 
in  the  direction  of  Sam's  grave.  She 
was  wondering  what  she  was  going 
to  do  without  Peanut.  She  did  not 
realize  that  perhaps  Cynthia  Scho- 
field was  wondering  equally  what  she 
was  going  to  do  with  him — what  was 
to  be  the  outcome  of  the  philanthrop- 
ic impulse  and  heart  hunger  that  had 
led  her  into  taking  the  pathetic  little 
creature  by  her  side,  away  from  his 
beloved  hills,  to  begin  a  new  develop- 
ment in  a  strange  atmosphere  and 
amid  alien  surroundings. 

26 


'PEANUT' 

But  if  Miss  Schofield  had  any  mis- 
givings as  to  the  wisdom  of  her  under- 
taking, she  was  upheld  by  the  thought 
that  her  purpose  was  altogether  right- 
eous, and  would  be  justified  by  results. 
The  fact  that  as  they  passed  Sam's 
grave  Peanut  flung  himself  upon  it 
and  wept,  and  refused  to  be  comforted, 
only  strengthened  her  belief  that  he 
would  one  day  glorify  her  for  having 
removed  him  from  the  influence  of 
former  companionships. 


IV 


JT  having  developed  that  at  some 
former  period  Blazer  Sam  had 
been  known  by  the  surname  Hopkins, 
Miss  Schofield  had  agreed  with  the 
Rose  that  the  latter  should  receive 
her  mail  under  the  very  respectable 
superscription  of  Mrs.  Rose  Hopkins, 
and  at  the  camp  postjoffice  arrange- 
ments had  been  made  to  this  end. 
Miss  Schofield  had  further  agreed  to 
write.  Also  that  Peanut  should  write 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  do  so. 

If  the  Rose  went  oftener  to  the 
camp  now,  and,  bringing  home  heavier 
bundles,  filled  longer  days  with  harder 


'PEANUT' 

work,  it  may  have  been  only  that  she 
was  providing  for  an  old  age  that  could 
not  be  far  distant,  or  very  luxurious 
at  best. 

If  the  mail  service  possessed  a  new 
attraction  for  her,  she  did  not  show  it. 
Her  years  of  lonely  secretive  life  had 
been  not  without  their  effect.  She 
made  no  inquiries  for  letters,  and 
seemed  rather  surprised  when  one 
day  in  September  the  storekeeper, 
who  was  also  postmaster,  laid  a  sealed 
envelope  with  her  package  of  coffee 
on  the  counter. 

Both  the  address  and  the  letter 
were  printed  —  type-written.  The 
Rose  did  not  understand  this  process, 
and  was  deeply  grateful  to  Miss  Scho- 
field  for  taking  extra  pains  to  make 
the  reading  easy.  It  was  not  a  long 
letter,  telling  only  of  her  safe  arrival 


'PEANUT' 

in  Chicago  with  Philip,  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  already  at  school,  where 
he  would  learn  very  fast.  Her  friends 
thought  a  great  deal  of  her  "little 
mountain  boy,"  but  she  was  trying  not 
to  let  them  spoil  him.  She  wished  to 
keep  his  nature  as  fresh  and  beautiful 
as  the  mountains  themselves,  adding 
only  such  education  as  would  make 
him  understand  the  higher  life,  and 
such  knowledge  of  the  world  as  would 
fit  him  to  take  his  part  in  it  by  and 
by.  Philip  had  sent  greetings  to 
"Rose  and  the  bears."  He  would 
write  before  long,  himself.  He  could 
already  shape  the  letters,  and  was  at 
his  work  constantly.  If  the  Rose 
needed  anything,  she  was  of  course  to 
let  Miss  Schofield  know.  Meantime, 
she  remained,  etc.,  etc. 

On  the  whole  it  was  a  satisfactory 
so 


'PEANUT' 

missive.  Peanut  was  safe  and  remem- 
bered her.  He  was  learning  to  write, 
and  would  send,  by  and  by,  letters  of 
his  own.  To  the  Rose  of  Texas  the 
type-written  sheet  containing  these 
assurances  became  of  more  value  than 
all  her  former  possessions.  She  pinned 
it  against  the  cabin  wall  where  she 
could  see  it  and  pause  before  it  as  she 
passed  in  her  work. 

Only,  in  one  sentence  of  the  let- 
ter there  was  a  pang.  She  had 
called  him  her  "little  mountain  boy." 
The  Rose  wondered  vaguely  if  this 
meant  that  she  herself  had  surren- 
dered all  claim.  The  sentence  about 
the  "higher  life"  rather  pleased  her. 
She  took  it  to  mean  a  more  preten- 
tious mode  of  Hying.  If  Peanut 
should  visit  her  by  and  by  he  would 
probably  come  in  a  buggy,  wearing  a 

31 


'PEANUT' 

high  hat  such  as  she  had  seen  on  rich 
mine  speculators.  She  resolved  to 
make  an  effort  herself  to  live  up  to 
this  higher  life  and  so  preserve 
something  of  her  claim  on  Pea- 
nut. 

She  recalled  a  tradition  that  women 
of  the  higher  life  did  not  drink 
whisky — at  least  not  regularly.  She 
would  give  up  her  toddies — by  de- 
grees, of  course — but  in  time  enough 
to  do  without  them  almost  altogether 
when  Peanut  arrived.  In  the  matter 
of  clothes,  she  had  noticed  that  those 
worn  by  Miss  Schofield  had  been 
quite  plain,  not  at  all  like  her  own 
gaudy  finery  of  former  years.  She 
would  get  some  very  plain  clothes, 
gradually,  as  she  could  earn  the 
money,  and  have  them  ready  for 
Peanut's  return.  She  would  also  piece 


'PEANUT' 

together  the  remnants  of  her  meager 
education. 

She  obtained  at  once  such  literature 
as  could  be  had  at  the  camp,  and 
patiently  pored  over  a  government 
survey,  and  a  mutilated  primary 
arithmetic  contributed  by  one  of  her 
patrons.  A  line  to  Miss  Schofield 
would  have  brought  her  quantities  of 
educational  matter,  but  this  fact  did 
not  occur  to  her.  Indeed,  the  possi- 
bility of  ever  writing  at  all  did  not 
enter  into  her  dreams. 

In  October  came  the  first  letter 
from  Peanut: 

DER  ROSE, — The  house-es  are  hi 
as  hils  and  thair  is  nois  al  the  tim. 
Yurs, 

P.   NUTT. 

The  writing  was  very  round  and 
plain.  It  seemed  marvelous  to  the 


'PEANUT' 

Rose  that  he  could  do  it  already. 
He  would  reach  the  higher  life  sooner 
than  she  had  thought.  She  would 
leave  out  her  "between"  toddies  to- 
morrow. 

A  week  later  brought  still  another 
letter.  Already  there  was  improve- 
ment. 

DEAR  ROSE, — Thare  are  no  hills 
here.     I  luk  at  my  pic-cher  of  Sams 
grav  ev-ry  day.     I  am  lern-ing  fig- 
grin,     they  call  it  num-ber  work. 
Yours, 

PH.  NUTT. 

After  that,  letters  came  almost 
every  week,  and  became  the  chief  life 
interest  of  the  lonely  woman  above 
the  clearing.  She  pinned  them  side 
by  side  to  the  wall  of  her  cabin,  that 
she  might  read  them  without  the  wear 
of  handling.  She  learned  each  by 

34 


'PEANUT' 

heart  as  it  came,  but  this  in  no  way 
destroyed  the  joy  of  after  -  perusal. 
She  compared  the  writing,  too,  and 
his  rapid  improvement  gratified  her 
and  spurred  her  to  vigorous  new 
efforts  of  her  own. 

I  may  say  here  that  the  boy's  prog- 
ress gratified  Miss  Schofield  as  well. 
Alert,  eager,  sensitive  to  new  impres- 
sions, Peanut  in  two  months  had 
overtaken  many  of  his  own  age. 
Some  he  had  passed  altogether.  In 
a  November  letter,  he  wrote: 

"There  is  a  rale-road  here  that 
runs  up  in  the  air,  and  rale-roads  on 
the  groun  that  go  all  the  time,  day 
an  nite.  I  want  to  see  you  and  the 
bears  and  Sams  grave.  And  I  want 
to  be  in  the  woods  where  there  are  no 
rale-roads." 

The  evident  homesickness  of  this 

35 


'PEANUT' 

letter  touched  the  Rose  deeply.  The 
"rale-road  in  the  air"  made  her 
marvel. 

The  next  letter  contained  further 
information. 

"Wim-men  here  do  not  smoak. 
And  they  do  not  say  dam.  I  mean 
wim-men  like  Miss  Schofield." 

The  Rose  had  never  been  given  to 
profanity.  It  had  been  a  luxury,  to 
be  indulged  in  on  rare  occasions.  She 
could  forego  it  easily.  Her  pipe  would 
be  a  harder  matter.  Harder  even 
than  her  toddy — yet,  she  must  do  it — 
she  would  begin  at  once.  She  re- 
solved that  nothing  should  stand  be- 
tween her  and  a  share  in  that  higher 
life  for  which  Peanut  was  destined. 

Later  in  November  there  came  a 
letter  in  which  he  said: 

"The  people  here  have  white  stones 

36 


'PEANUT' 

at  their  graves  in-sted  of  boards. 
They  call  them  marble.  They  put 
their  names  on  them,  and  when  they 
was  born  and  was  kild,  or  died. 
They  are  not  alwis  kild  here.  I  wish 
Sam  had  a  white  mar-ble  stone  with 
his  true  name  on  it.  We  could  keep 
the  other  too.  They  have  one  at 
each  end.  When  I  come  back  I  will 
by  one." 

The  Rose  toiled  earlier  and  later 
than  before.  She  no  longer  had  time 
for  solitaire.  She  also  grew  thinner, 
and  a  new  look  had  come  into  her 
face.  The  possibility  of  former  beauty 
could  be  more  easily  accorded.  A 
miner  from  the  camp  came  one  day 
and  wanted  to  marry  her.  Some 
trace  of  a  far-off  former  life  of  co- 
quetry made  her  laugh  and  say  to 
him: 

37 


'PEANUT' 

:<  You're  too  late.  I've  a  sweet- 
heart already.  He's  coming  in  a 
buggy,  with  fine  clothes  on,  and  a 
high  hat." 

The  miner  went  back  to  camp  and 
reported  that  the  Rose  had  caught  a 
speculator,  who  would  take  her  to 
Ogden  in  the  spring. 

Autumn  became  winter.  The  bears 
went  to  sleep  in  their  cave,  and  came 
no  more  to  the  cabin.  Blazer  Sam's 
grave  was  lost  in  folds  of  white,  and 
at  times  the  lone  woman  above  the 
clearing  was  shut  in  for  days.  But 
though  alone,  she  was  no  longer 
lonely.  With  work  and  the  letters 
upon  the  wall  her  days  had  become 
as  dream-days,  her  nights  brief  periods 
of  untroubled  sleep.  It  was  only 
when  the  passes  were  blocked  and 
detained  the  stage  with  Peanut's  let- 

38 


'PEANUT' 

ter  that  she  minded  the  storm.  At 
one  time  the  delay  was  long.  Then 
she  received  two,  and  was  propor- 
tionately gratified.  In  the  longer  of 
these  he  wrote: 

"Miss  Schofield  gives  shose.  She 
has  a  lant-ern  that  makes  pic-tures  on 
a  big  sheet.  They  are  seens  of  where 
she  goes.  Last  night  she  shode  the 
mines  and  told  about  them.  Then 
she  shode  Sams  grave  with  me  a-sleep 
on  it,  and  it  was  as  big  as  it  is  there. 
She  came  and  took  my  hand  and  led 
me  up  in  front  of  the  peo-ple  and  told 
them  it  was  the  grave  of  the  cel-ib- 
ra-ted  Sam  Hopkins,  and  that  he  had 
been  called  Blazer  Sam,  and  how  she 
found  me  asleep  on  his  grave,  and 
how  he  used  to  make  me  whissels  and 
go  with  me  over  the  mount-ins.  And 
how  he  must  have  had  a  good  hart  to 

4  39 


'PEANUT' 

care  so  much  for  a  lit-tle  boy.  And 
when  I  saw  the  picture  so  big  and 
plain  and  heard  how  much  she  liked 
Sam  too,  I  had  to  cry,  and  Miss  Scho- 
field  says  that  then  all  the  peo-ple 
cried,  and  that  she  must  not  do  it 
again.  If  Miss  Schofield  was  not  so 
good  I  would  come  back.  I  think 
about  the  bears  up  in  their  cave 
a-sleep,  and  how  the  snow  is  on  Sams 
grave,  and  how  lone-some  you  must 
be  there  alone.  She  is  almost  as  good 
as  Sam,  and  I  know  now  that  Sam 
belonged  to  the  hire  life.  I  guess  he 
lerned  it  when  he  was  away  so  much." 
It  is  doubtful  if  Miss  Schofield  saw 
all  the  letters  which  Peanut  wrote  to 
the  Rose.  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  she  saw  none  of  them  after  the 
first,  and  that  one  only  to  be  sure 
that  it  was  legible  and  properly  ad- 

40 


dressed.  She  meant  to  be  liberal,  and 
was  so,  according  to  her  lights.  Her 
favorite  word  was  "spontaneity"  and 
she  was  eager  to  allow  the  boy  his 
own  privacy  and  expression  —  any 
form  of  freedom,  indeed,  that  did  not 
conflict  with  the  lives  of  others  or 
with  his  spiritual  development. 

Concerning  his  former  guardian  and 
beloved  hero,  she  carefully  avoided 
any  suggestion  that  would  tend  to 
destroy  a  beautiful  illusion  of  child- 
hood. In  the  boy's  dream-life  Sam 
had  been  all  that  he  appeared,  and 
there  must  be  no  rude  awakening. 
Little  by  little,  as  we  learn  the  truth 
about  Santa  Glaus  and  fairies,  and 
never  wholly  lose  faith  in  them,  so  in 
due  course  and  almost  imperceptibly 
would  come  enlightenment  and  a  truer 
understanding. 

41 


'PEANUT' 

But  this  attitude  did  not  prevent 
Miss  Schofield  from  dilating  upon  the 
lurid  history  of  Blazer  Sam  in  her 
entertainment,  as  usually  given.  Pea- 
nut was  absent  at  such  times,  and  the 
audience  unknown  to  him.  It  was 
one  of  her  choicest  bits,  and  the  grim 
humor  of  it  was  only  heightened  by 
the  touch  of  pathos  supplied  by  the 
picture  of  the  grave  with  the  sleeping 
figure  of  Peanut,  the  story  of  his  de- 
votion to  the  outlaw,  and  his  present 
relation  to  herself.  As  I  have  said, 
Miss  Schofield  was,  before  all,  the 
artist. 

Nor  would  it  be  fair,  I  think,  to 
attach  blame  to  Miss  Schofield  for 
what  the  super-sensitive  reader  might 
regard  as  a  certain  disloyalty  to 
Peanut.  Certainly  it  was  proper  to 
leave  his  faith  in  Sam's  goodness  un- 

42 


'PEANUT' 

disturbed,  at  least  through  the  boy's 
trusting  childhood;  while  it  was  no 
less  justifiable  to  make  such  use  of 
the  facts  as  would  best  serve  their 
artistic  presentation.  The  ends  of 
art  have  justified  conditions  far  more 
questionable  than  these,  and  her  error, 
if  there  was  an  error,  would  seem  to 
have  been  an  earlier  matter  —  com- 
mitted on  that  August  day  when, 
following  a  sudden  half  -  romantic, 
half-philanthropic  impulse,  she  was 
prompted  to  transplant,  to  a  crowded 
and  noisy  environment,  a  life  so  essen- 
tially a  thing  of  the  open  sky  and  the 
wide  freedom  of  the  hills.  But  per- 
haps there  are  no  mistakes  in  this 
world.  A  good  many  otherwise  rea- 
sonable persons  hold  by  this  doctrine. 


M[SS  SCHOFIELD  had  been  care- 
ful to  see  that  Peanut  was  in 
bed  and  asleep  on  that  night  in  June 
when  the  schools  closed  and  she  was 
giving  a  cozy  supper  to  her  fellow- 
teachers.  Ever  since  the  breaking  of 
the  buds  in  the  park  the  boy  had  been 
restless,  and  she  did  not  wish  him  to 
be  disturbed  by  the  voices  and  merri- 
ment of  her  company.  Then,  too,  a 
little  private  exhibition  of  some  of  her 
choicest  "  in-gatherings "  would  fol- 
low, and  it  would  not  do  for  her  group 
of  special  friends  to  be  deprived  of  any 
feature  of  her  collection.  They  would 

44 


"PEANUT' 

be  quite  sure  to  want  the  outlaw's 
grave  and  her  picturesque  narrative 
accompaniment . 

She  bent  over  the  sleeping  boy  and 
listened  to  his  heavy  breathing.  What 
a  joy  and  comfort  he  was  to  her! 
She  had  felt  his  hunger  for  the  open 
air  and  the  breath  of  the  mountains. 
Yet  how  faithful  he  had  been  to  his 
books — how  little  he  had  mingled  with 
the  sports  of  other  children!  He  was 
of  different  fiber.  And  what  progress 
he  had  made!  Some  day  the  world 
would  honor  and  claim  him.  Now  he 
was  all  hers  —  her  captive  wood- 
creature — her  dreamer,  her  poet !  She 
bent  over  and  lightly  kissed  his  hair. 
Sometimes  she  had  strained  him  to 
her  bosom.  She  longed  to  do  so  now, 
but  a  moment  later  was  stepping 
silently  to  the  door,  then  as  silently 

45 


'PEANUT' 

she  closed  it  and  drew  the  heavy 
curtain  without. 

Miss  Schofield  was  not  mistaken  in 
the  expectations  of  her  guests.  Like 
their  pupils,  the  merry  teachers  re- 
joiced in  a  newly  acquired  freedom 
and  wished  to  be  amused.  In  the 
darkened  parlor  they  forgot  the  year's 
restraints  and  labors  and  gave  them- 
selves up  to  luxury  of  enjoyment. 

As  the  gem  of  the  programme,  the 
Blazer's  grave  was  held  for  the  last. 
When  at  length  it  was  thrown  upon 
the  sheet  there  was  a  chorus  of  ap- 
proval and  a  round  of  applause.  And 
Cynthia  Schofield  rose  to  the  occasion. 
She  had  never  been  so  full  of  joy  in 
the  present,  so  satisfied  with  what  life 
had  brought  to  her  in  the  past,  so 
pleased  with  the  outlook  ahead.  The 
picture  on  the  screen  was  a  part  of 

46 


'PEANUT' 

these  happy  conditions,  her  audience 
inspiring.  Her  friends  expected  the 
best,  and  they  should  have  it.  With 
what  subtle  art  she  led  up  to  the. 
incident:  The  stopping  of  the  stage, 
the  driver  pointing  up  the  hillside  with 
his  whip.  Then  the  scaling  of  the 
steep  ascent,  the  pausing  here  and 
there  to  look  down  upon  the  scene  of 
the  outlaw's  former  crimes,  which  she 
recalled,  as  she  had  heard  them,  in 
the  vernacular  of  the  hills.  Next,  her 
entrance  to  the  little  clearing  about 
the  grave — the  black  stumps,  the 
flowers — and  Peanut  on  the  grave, 
asleep.  And  her  interview  with  Pea- 
nut! She  made  it  a  masterpiece! 
She  even  may  have  colored  it  a  little 
—the  ends  of  art  would  justify  that, 
too.  The  imitation  of  Peanut's  voice, 
and  his  monotonous  reading  of  the 

47 


'PEANUT' 

profane  and  half-comprehended  epi- 
taph— she  gave  them  with  a  fidelity 
that  startled  even  herself.  Her  friends 
became  hysterical.  At  one  moment 
sobbing  and  wiping  their  eyes,  at  the 
next  laughing,  the  tears  still  running 
down  their  cheeks.  And  then  the  pic- 
ture she  drew  of  the  Rose  of  Texas, 
and  of  Peanut  when  he  sat  waiting 
for  her  to  take  him  away.  "Worthy 
of  Dickens!"  they  cried  out  to  her. 
:*You  must  write  it,  Miss  Schofield! 
You  must  certainly  write  it!" 

But  Miss  Schofield  will  never  write 
that  scene,  and  those  of  us  who 
listened  that  night  in  June  heard  not 
only  its  greatest  presentation,  but  its 
last.  A  moment  later  the  lights  went 
up,  and  she  turned  for  congratulations. 
Then  she  saw  him.  He  stood  just  inside 
the  door,  and  his  face  was  like  death. 

48 


'PEANUT' 

The  prolonged  merriment  had  found 
its  way  through  the  heavy  curtain 
and  closed  door.  Unable  to  sleep,  he 
had  dressed  and  come  out  to  find  the 
cause.  He  had  never  been  forbidden 
any  part  of  the  house,  and  at  the 
entrance  of  the  darkened  parlor  had 
listened  in  silence  to  the  entertain- 
ment that  ended  with  ridicule  and 
defamation  of  his  hero,  with  jeers  of 
laughter  for  himself  and  Rose.  Once 
more  he  had  met  with  deception — this 
time  in  one  whom  he  had  trusted  and 
loved,  even  as  he  had  loved  and 
trusted  Sam — in  her,  of  all  others, 
who  had  promised  to  lead  him  to  the 
higher  and  better  life. 

As  white  and  death-like  as  himself, 
Cynthia  Schofield  led  him  back  to  his 
bed.  There  she  tried  to  speak  to  him. 

Peanut  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

49 


VI 


THE  letter  which  the  postmaster 
handed  to  the  Rose  of  Texas 
seemed  heavier  than  usual.  The  Rose 
hugged  it  all  the  way  up  the  moun- 
tain. Then  out  on  the  doorstep, 
where  he  had  said  good  -  by,  she 
opened  and  read  it.  The  first  sen- 
tence made  her  heart  leap: 

DEAR  ROSE, — I  am  coming  back. 
I  will  start  before  morning.  If  I  go 
west  and  keep  on  every  day,  some 
day  I  will  get  there.  Miss  Schofield 
told  me  once  that  it  was  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles,  so  if  I  can  walk  fifteen 
miles  a  day  it  will  take  me  a  hun- 
dred days  to  get  to  the  cabin  and 
Sam's  grave.  The  money  you  gave 
50 


•PEANUT' 

me  is  not  enough  to  come  on  the 
cars.  I  will  spend  it  for  things  to 
eat.  At  ten  cents  a  day  it  will  last 
till  I  get  home.  Perhaps  some  days 
I  won't  need  to  spend  so  much.  I 
will  wear  the  clothes  you  made  me 
and  my  own  hat  and  shoes.  I  have 
them  all  on  now,  and  the  lether 
sack  with  Sam's  ambertipe  and  the 
whissel,  and  the  money.  I  would 
like  to  take  the  picture  of  the  grave, 
but  I  shall  leave  it  on  the  wall. 

I  wrote  you  how  Miss  Schofield 
showed  the  picture  of  the  grave  and 
told  about  Sam's  good  heart.  When 
I  am  not  there  she  tells  how  he  had 
a  cruel  heart  and  was  only  good  to 
me.  And  it  is  not  true,  and  when 
she  told  how  she  met  me  at  Sam's 
grave  she  told  other  things  that  were 
not  true,  and  that  did  not  happen  at 
all.  She  laughs  at  Sam  and  the 
grave  and  at  you  and  me.  And  she 
makes  other  people  laugh.  That  is 
all  she  cares  for.  I  thaut  she  was 
like  Sam,  but  she  is  not  and  I  could 
not  be  good  here  either,  where  there 
51 


'PEANUT' 

are  so  many  bad  people  and  nothing 
is  clean.  The  snow  is  so  dirty  here 
they  take  it  right  away  and  you  can 
never  hear  the  wind  and  rain.  They 
have  trees  in  the  park  and  animals 
and  birds  in  cages,  but  they  make 
me  cry  because  they  are  so  home- 
sick, like  me.  I  want  to  come  back 
to  the  hills  where  there  is  just  you 
and  the  bears  and  Sam's  grave.  If 
I  start  to-night  and  it  takes  a  hun- 
dred days  it  will  be  more  than  a 
year  since  I  went  away.  I  will  never 
leave  you  any  more.  I  am  obliged 
to  Miss  Schofield  for  sending  me  to 
school,  but  I  cannot  stay  here  now. 
I  was  yours  before  I  was  hers,  and 
I  will  be  yours  again.  Perhaps  I  can 
get  some  books  and  study  lessons 
there  with  you  and  learn  to  be  a 
naturallist,  when  I  grow  up,  which 
means  to  live  in  the  woods  and 
know  about  the  birds  and  animals, 
and  I  will  dig  gold  out  of  the  mines 
for  us  and  I  will  put  a  white  stone 
at  Sam's  grave  so  we  can  see  it  from 
every-where. 

52 


'PEANUT' 

Now  I  am  going  to  start.  I  am 
going  to  slip  down-stairs  and  I  will 
be  out  in  the  country  before  morn- 
ing. Sam  taut  me  how  to  hide,  and 
how  to  keep  in  one  direction.  Per- 
haps I  will  write  to  you  on  the  way, 
but  I  must  not  buy  many  stamps  or 
paper.  Anyway  I  will  be  coming  all 
the  time,  and  some  day  I  will  be 
there  the  same  as  ever. 

Yours, 

PEANUT. 

The  Rose  of  Texas  was  a  bundle  of 
conflicting  emotions  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  end  of  this  letter.  But 
out  of  it  all  came  one  dominant  joy. 
Peanut  was  coming  back  to  her — he 
was  already  on  the  way.  Whatever 
resentment  she  may  have  felt  toward 
Miss  Schofield  was  swallowed  up  in 
this  great  fact. 

As  to  Peanut's  ability  to  make  the 
long  journey,  she  did  not  question  it — 

53 


"PEANUT' 

not  yet.  She  knew,  of  course,  that 
the  way  was  long,  and  would  be  hard 
in  places.  How  long  or  how  hard, 
neither  she  nor  any  one  could  know. 
She  realized  much  more  fully  Peanut's 
subtle  knowledge  of  outdoor  life,  his 
persistence,  and  the  endurance  of  his 
wiry  little  frame.  She  forgot  that  a 
winter  of  comparative  inaction  and 
close  mental  application  might  have 
told  on  his  physical  powers.  It  would 
be  a  weary  journey,  but  with  the  long 
days  of  summer  -  time  at  hand  he 
would  not  fail,  and  September  would 
bring  him  back  to  her. 

She  would  begin  preparing  for  him 
at  once.  She  would  make  up  one  of 
the  new  dresses,  and  leave  off  her 
second  toddy  to-morrow.  Then  there 
was  another  purpose,  which  must  be 
accomplished  now,  sooner  than  she 

54 


'PEANUT' 

had  expected.  Her  boy  was  coming 
back  to  her — not  as  she  had  once 
dreamed,  in  a  buggy,  and  wearing  a 
tall  silk  hat — but,  better  still,  the  boy 
who  had  gone  away.  He  would  find 
her  ready  to  receive  him. 

But  one  thing  troubled  the  Rose — 
the  amount  of  Peanut's  resources. 
With  the  aid  of  her  fragmentary 
arithmetic  she  verified  his  calculation 
that  if  a  little  boy  traveled  fifteen 
miles  a  day,  and  traveled  a  hundred 
days,  he  would  travel  fifteen  hundred 
miles;  also,  if  the  same  little  boy  had 
ten  dollars,  and  spent  ten  cents  of  it 
every  day,  he  would  have  enough  to 
last  him  through  the  journey.  Only, 
she  wished  that  he  might  have  more 
than  ten  cents  a  day.  It  seemed  to 
her  so  little — she  wondered  what  he 
would  buy  with  it.  Crackers,  mostly, 

5  55 


"PEANUT' 

she  thought,  and  cheese.  The  Rose 
thought  of  the  eatables  kept  at  the 
camp  store,  and  sighed  as  she  remem- 
bered how  little  of  them  could  be  had 
for  ten  cents.  If  she  only  knew  where 
to  send  him  more  money.  But  she 
remembered  hearing  that  things  were 
cheaper  beyond  the  mountains,  and 
this  thought  consoled  her. 

As  the  days  passed,  her  confidence 
in  Peanut's  ability  to  make  the  long 
trip  began  to  wane.  Chicago  lay  far 
to  the  eastward,  across  rivers  and  be- 
yond mountains.  She  reasoned  that 
there  must  be  a  road  and  bridges 
between,  but  in  her  imagination  she 
began  to  see  the  dusty  little  figure 
toiling  along  in  the  sun,  overcome  by 
thirst  and  heat,  where  the  prairies 
were  wide,  and  the  houses  far  apart. 
At  times  she  pictured  him  as  being 

56 


'PEANUT' 

run  down  by  those  terrible  railroad 
trains,  as  waylaid  and  robbed  of  his 
little  store  of  money  and  left  by  the 
roadside  to  die.  Almost  clairvoy- 
antly,  at  night,  she  saw  him  asleep 
in  fence-corners,  in  haystacks,  under 
bushes  and  ledges  of  rock — anywhere 
that  afforded  shelter  to  the  friendless 
little  wayfarer  toiling  back  to  his  be- 
loved hills.  When  the  storm  raged 
down  the  mountains  she  would  open 
the  door  and,  looking  out  into  the 
mystery  of  blackness,  fancy  she  heard 
his  thin  voice  calling  to  her  above 
the  roar  of  the  torrent  and  the  wail 
of  the  tree-tops.  However  busy  her 
days,  they  no  longer  seemed  brief,  her 
nights  were  no  longer  untroubled. 
She  knew  that  he  was  still  far  away 
beyond  the  mountains,  yet  twenty 
times  a  day  she  hastened  to  the  door 

57 


'PEANUT' 

to  look  and  listen,  while  at  night  wild 
dreams  brought  her  bolt  upright  to 
answer  to  his  call. 

When  two  weeks  had  passed  the 
stage  one  day  brought  her  two  letters. 
One  of  them  from  Miss  Schofield — 
written  from  a  sense  of  duty,  we  may 
believe — told,  briefly  and  guardedly, 
of  the  strange  disappearance  of  Pea- 
nut. The  writer  assured  the  Rose 
that  there  was  no  cause  for  uneasiness, 
that  every  effort  was  being  made  to 
find  the  missing  boy  and  that  he  was 
certain  to  be  discovered  in  a  brief 
time.  The  Rose  smiled  grimly  as  she 
read  this  epistle,  for  the  other  one 
had  been  from  Peanut — just  a  line  on 
a  bit  of  wrapping-paper,  to  tell  her 
that  in  seven  days  he  had  reached 
Iowa,  which  was  farther  than  he  had 
expected  to  be  at  that  time.  People 

58 


'PEANUT' 

had  asked  him  to  ride,  sometimes,  on 
their  wagons.  There  were  nearly  al- 
ways good  places  to  sleep — mostly  in 
the  woods,  where  he  had  the  birds  and 
squirrels  for  company.  He  was  well, 
and  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a  year. 
The  Rose  did  not  know  where  Iowa 
was.  When  she  asked  the  postmaster 
he  showed  it  to  her  on  the  map. 
Then  she  did  not  know  any  better, 
but  she  was  comforted.  Peanut  wrote 
again  when  he  reached  Nebraska,  but 
that  was  nearly  three  weeks  later, 
and  the  Rose  had  become  almost  des- 
perate. Now  she  was  made  briefly 
happy  by  the  statement  that  he  was 
still  well,  and  had  money,  and  that 
he  had  found  there  were  only  two 
more  states  to  cross,  Nebraska  and 
Wyoming,  and  then  a  little  more  and 
he  would  be  home. 


'PEANUT' 

To  the  Rose  a  state  was  a  state. 
That  the  distance  yet  to  be  traveled 
was  double  that  already  covered,  and 
many  times  more  difficult,  did  not 
occur  to  her.  But  when  two  weeks 
more  had  passed,  and  yet  two  more, 
and  brought  no  further  word  from  the 
little  wayfarer,  her  heart  grew  very 
heavy  again,  and  she  haunted  the 
camp  post-office  with  each  arrival  of 
the  stage. 

And  still  another  two  weeks  went 
by,  and  yet  he  did  not  come,  and  the 
days  brought  her  no  word.  She  did 
not  know  that  the  number  of  crackers 
obtained  by  Peanut  for  five  cents  had 
been  reduced  in  his  westward  march 
from  ten  to  eight,  from  eight  to  six, 
and  that  the  bit  of  cheese  received  in 
exchange  for  the  other  five  cents  had 
grown  so  small  that  the  little  boy, 


'PEANUT' 

alarmed,  had  feared  to  spend  even  the 
money  necessary  for  another  letter. 
The  Rose  did  not  know  these  things, 
and  even  had  she  known,  it  would 
hardly  have  lessened  her  anxiety. 

She  spent  most  of  her  time  now  in 
watching  for  him.  The  hundred  days 
had  by  no  means  expired,  but  his  let- 
ters had  led  her  to  hope  that  he  had 
gained  time  and  would  be  there  sooner 
than  he  had  calculated.  According  to 
her  count,  if  a  little  boy  could  cross 
two  states  in  four  weeks,  he  could 
cross  four  states  and  something  over 
in  about  nine  weeks,  and  now  twelve 
weeks  had  gone  by  and  he  had  not 
come.  The  fact  that  he  no  longer 
wrote  encouraged  her  to  believe  that 
at  any  moment  he  might  walk  in  upon 
her. 

But  now  came  an  added  anxiety, 

61 


'PEANUT' 

A  letter,  indeed,  not  from  Peanut,  but 
a  broken-hearted  confession  from  Cyn- 
thia Schofield,  who,  good  woman  that 
she  was,  acknowledged  everything, 
begging  the  Rose  to  forgive  her,  and 
to  write  if  she  knew  aught  of  their 
little  lad. 

"It  was  all  so  strange  and  unsuited 
to  him  here,"  she  wrote.  "I  can  see, 
now,  how  he  belonged  only  there  in 
those  beautiful  hills  and  how  his  life 
there  would  mean  more  to  him,  and 
to  others,  too,  I  believe,  than  here  in 
the  sordid  clatter  and  struggle  and 
deception  that  he  could  not  endure — " 
Then,  in  closing,  she  added:  "Some- 
times I  think  he  must  have  started 
home,  and  I  am  having  notices  posted 
and  published  all  along  the  way,  so 
that  somebody  may  find  him  and  keep 
him  safely  until  I  come.  Poor  little 


'PEANUT' 

fellow!  Where  is  he,  and  what  is  he 
doing  to-night,  out  all  alone  in  this 
great  wicked  waste  of  a  world?" 

The  Rose  comprehended  little  more 
than  the  grief  of  this  letter,  and  she 
pitied  Miss  Schofield,  as  one  woman 
may  pity  another  when  there  is  but 
one  heart's  desire  for  both;  but  her 
sympathy  vanished  in  the  fear  that 
Miss  Schofield' s  agents  with  their 
wide  knowledge  and  ample  resources 
would  find  the  boy  after  all  and  that 
to  her,  the  Rose,  he  would  now  be  lost 
forever. 

She  was  in  a  frenzy  of  suspense.  A 
hundred  times  she  would  have  closed 
the  cabin  and  gone  to  meet  him,  but 
feared  she  might  pass  him  by  a  differ- 
ent way,  and  so  wander  on  and  on 
helplessly.  Her  anxiety  at  last  over- 
came her  secretiveness,  and  she  one 

63 


'PEANUT' 

day  partially  unburdened  herself  to 
the  postmaster,  who  informed  her  that 
for  at  least  fifty  miles  to  the  east- 
ward there  was  but  one  road.  This 
was  in  September,  more  than  three 
months  from  the  night  that  Peanut 
had  left  Miss  Schofield's  apartment 
in  Chicago.  The  Rose  could  wait  no 
longer.  She  set  out  to  meet  him  the 
same  afternoon. 

She  put  on  one  of  her  new  plain 
gowns,  and  a  new,  though  not  alto- 
gether plain  bonnet  which  the  store- 
keeper had  ordered  for  her  from 
Ogden.  She  started  to  put  on  her 
new  shoes,  too,  but,  remembering  that 
she  might  have  far  to  walk,  held  to 
the  old  ones.  Then  she  packed  a  bas- 
ket with  eatables — good  things  such 
as  Peanut  had  always  liked.  He 
would  be  tired  of  the  things  he  could 

64 


'PEANUT' 

buy  with  his  ten  cents  a  day  along  the 
road.  Tired?  dear  heart!  As  if  a 
little  boy  trudging  over  range  after 
range  of  lofty  mountains,  only  to  find 
range  after  range  of  still  loftier  ones 
beyond,  could  be  tired  of  any  kind  of 
food!  The  Rose  imagined  how  he 
would  welcome  the  freshly  cooked 
bread,  and  the  coffee  which  she  would 
make  in  the  little  pail.  She  felt  much 
less  unstrung  now  that  she  was  really 
going  to  meet  him,  and  more  nearly 
happy  than  she  had  been  for  weeks. 
Only,  she  must  hurry,  and  get  as  far 
as  possible  before  nightfall.  Over 
her  arm  she  threw  a  thick  army 
blanket,  for  sleeping  on  the  ground. 
It  was  well  on  toward  two  o'clock 
when  she  started.  The  path  led  by 
Sam's  grave,  and  she  paused  an  in- 
stant to  regard  the  place  with  a  new 


'PEANUT' 

pride.  Then  she  pressed  on — there 
would  be  time  enough  for  this  after- 
ward. 

The  Rose  of  Texas  found  it  hard 
climbing  the  mountain  road.  She 
began  to  realize  now  why  it  was  that 
Peanut  might  be  longer  than  he  had 
counted  on,  and  her  heart  ached  for 
him  more,  and  her  arms  ached,  too, 
under  the  heavy  load  of  blanket  and 
basket.  When  she  had  been  toiling 
up  the  hill  for  perhaps  three  hours 
she  wondered  how  many  miles  she 
had  come.  But  at  a  high  turn  of  the 
road  she  paused  to  look  back,  and 
was  surprised  to  see — almost  behind 
her,  it  seemed — her  own  steep  hill- 
side, with  the  little  clearing  about 
Sam's  grave.  It  was  fully  six  or 
seven  miles  away,  but  in  that  clear 
air  it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  might 

66 


'PEANUT' 

reach  out  and  touch  it.  Wearily  she 
pushed  on.  Dark  fell,  and  she  halted 
for  the  night. 

It  grew  very  cold.  The  Rose  at- 
tempted to  kindle  a  fire,  but  she  could 
not  find  dry  pieces,  and  the  matches 
flickered  and  smoldered  to  blackness. 
She  huddled  down  in  her  blanket  at 
last,  realizing  what  this  night  must 
mean  to  a  hungry  little  boy  with 
nothing  but  the  sky  to  cover  him. 
Perhaps  experience  had  taught  Peanut 
a  better  means  of  providing,  but  the 
Rose  did  not  consider  this,  and 
through  the  bitter  night  saw  him 
crouching  in  the  dark,  shivering  with 
cold  and  exposure.  She  did  not  sleep, 
and  before  daybreak  was  toiling  up 
the  long  incline. 

The  way  grew  ever  steeper:  she 
was  nearing  the  mountain-top.  It 

67 


'PEANUT' 

grew  lighter,  too,  and  presently  she 
noticed  that  the  trees  ahead  were 
fringed  with  morning.  The  sun  was 
coming. 

The  fringe  crept  lower,  the  woods 
on  either  side  turned  to  amethyst,  a 
spot  of  radiance  lay  on  the  high  trail 
between.  The  Rose  paused  and,  look- 
ing up,  gave  welcome  to  the  new  day. 

Then,  all  at  once,  in  the  patch  of 
sunrise  ahead,  something  dark  ap- 
peared; something  that  moved,  hesi- 
tated, moved  again,  stopped.  The 
woman's  knees  began  to  tremble  ex- 
ceedingly. Hastily  shifting  her  bur- 
dens, she  shaded  her  eyes  and  looked 
steadily  into  the  brightness.  Then 
she  was  sure.  It  was  Peanut,  and 
the  glory  behind  him  set  a  halo  upon 
his  faded  hair. 

The  wayfarer  had  returned.     Who 

68 


'PEANUT' 

shall  say  across  what  desert  wastes, 
through  what  dark  gorges,  and  by 
what  dizzy  heights  the  long  path 
had  led  him  home — had  brought  him 
nearer  to  the  abiding  comfort  of  Sam's 
quiet  grave  and  the  rest  of  the  endur- 
ing mountains?  Who  shall  determine 
what  unseen  power  had  sustained  that 
frail  body  and  guided  those  wander- 
ing feet? 

He  had  not  seen  her.  She  was  in 
the  shadow  beneath,  and  he  seemed 
looking  over  her  head  to  some  far- 
away point  beyond.  For  one  su- 
preme instant  the  woman  lingered  to 
drink  in  the  vision.  Then  basket, 
blanket,  and  old  restraints  fell  away 
as  she  pressed  up  the  slope,  the  new 
dawn  shining  in  her  face.  He  looked 
down  then  and  saw  her.  These  two 
had  never  embraced,  but  a  moment 


'PEANUT' 

later  he  was  in  her  arms  and 
tears  mingled. 

"Peanut,  oh,  my  poor  little 
how  thin  you  are!" 

"Oh,  Rose,  Rose!    You  boughl 
for  him,  didn't  you?" 

For  behold,  from  that  high  po* 
the  steep  clearing  on  the  far-off  hii 
side  was  once  more  visible.     But  the 
black  stumps  were  no  longer  to  be 
seen,  and  in  their  place  a  white  stone 
gleamed  with  the  radiance  of  morning. 


THE   END 


; 


a 

£ 


HIM  I  II  III   Mill 

3  1158  01244  0060 

)!  s^Fli    if 

/  &     £.  J>^  I  =3        3V 

1**        O  IB  ^.CN  ^ji    V 


A  A      000254406    2 


S 

^ 


